I sit on the couch vaguely wishing I had a tumultuous
episode to write about. This is what motivates most Vice writers. Isn’t it.
Perhaps a decade long weed dependency, perhaps
a mental funk that digresses into a 2 year depression. That’s pretty
interesting.
Or just maybe my life – my life which is quite fine and
exactly where I want it – is interesting in a quotidian way. I wonder...
I curate my day beginning with clothes. My clothes represent
how I’m feeling. A pencil skirt with ankle boots, some kind of blouse top thing
I ran up on the sewing machine. Hair tied back, colourful craft earrings. That
says: “Righto day, let’s be having you”. I will strut the corridors at work
pretending that government administration is my career choice. I will engage in
conversation with whosoever has the courage to make eye contact with me in the
kitchen as I make a cup of tea. My tattoos flourish below my short sleeves, a signifier
that I am not as dull as the grey bureaucratic environment wants me to be. This
is a good day.
A not so good day would look like black slim tapered
trousers, flat sandals, a dark coloured loose fitting top, hair down. This
says: “please don’t talk to me because I find you very annoying. All of you”.
The regulars at the bus stop. The team of misfits and wastrels (of which I am
both) that I work with. The frumpy middle aged women endlessly washing up
plastic containers in the kitchen at work after some overly elaborate luncheon.
Eat a fucking sandwich.
